Series of original dramas, dialogues & readings adapted for amateur entertainments: Annie's holiday. A little comedy. Poem--The Old Man's Prayer [by Jean Ingelow] |
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 | Series of original dramas, dialogues & readings |  |
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THE OLD MAN'S PRAYER.
BY JEAN INGELOW.
There was a poor old man
Who sat and listened to the raging sea,
And heard it thunder, lunging at the cliffs
As like to tear them down. He lay at night;
And “Lord have mercy on the lads,” said he,
“That sailed at noon, though they be none of mine!
For when the gale gets up, and when the wind
Flings at the window, when it beats the roof,
And lulls and stops and rouses up again,
And cuts the crest clean off the plunging wave,
And scatters it like feathers up the field,
Why then I think of my two lads,—my lads
That would have worked and never let me want,
And never let me take the parish pay.
No, none of mine; my lads were drowned at sea,
My two—before the most of these were born.
I know how sharp that cuts, since my poor wife
Walked up and down, and still walked up and down,
And I walked after, and one could not hear
A word the other said, for wind and sea
That raged and beat, and thundered in the night,—
The awfullest, the longest, lightest night
That ever parents had to spend,—a moon
That shone like daylight on the breaking wave.
Ah me! and other men have lost their lads,
And other women wiped their poor dead mouths,
And got them home and dried them in the house,
And seen the drift-wood lie along the coast,
That was a tidy boat but one day back
And seen next tide the neighbours gather it
To lay it on their fires.
Who sat and listened to the raging sea,
And heard it thunder, lunging at the cliffs
As like to tear them down. He lay at night;
And “Lord have mercy on the lads,” said he,
“That sailed at noon, though they be none of mine!
For when the gale gets up, and when the wind
Flings at the window, when it beats the roof,
And lulls and stops and rouses up again,
And cuts the crest clean off the plunging wave,
And scatters it like feathers up the field,
Why then I think of my two lads,—my lads
That would have worked and never let me want,
And never let me take the parish pay.
No, none of mine; my lads were drowned at sea,
My two—before the most of these were born.
I know how sharp that cuts, since my poor wife
Walked up and down, and still walked up and down,
And I walked after, and one could not hear
A word the other said, for wind and sea
That raged and beat, and thundered in the night,—
The awfullest, the longest, lightest night
That ever parents had to spend,—a moon
That shone like daylight on the breaking wave.
Ah me! and other men have lost their lads,
And other women wiped their poor dead mouths,
And got them home and dried them in the house,
15
That was a tidy boat but one day back
And seen next tide the neighbours gather it
To lay it on their fires.
Ay, I was strong
And able-bodied,—loved my work;—but now
I'm a useless hull; 'tis time I sunk;
I'm in all men's way; I trouble them;
I am a trouble to myself; but yet
I feel for mariners on stormy nights,
And feel for wives that watch ashore. Ay, ay!
If I had learning I would pray the Lord
To bring them in: but I'm no scholar, no;
Book learning is a world too hard for me:
But I make bold to say, ‘O Lord, good Lord,
I am a broken-down poor man, a fool
To speak to Thee: but in the Book 'tis writ,
As I have heard from others that can read,
How, when Thou camest, Thou didst love the sea,
And live with fisherfolk, whereby 'tis sure
Thou knowest all the peril they go through,
And all their trouble.
And able-bodied,—loved my work;—but now
I'm a useless hull; 'tis time I sunk;
I'm in all men's way; I trouble them;
I am a trouble to myself; but yet
I feel for mariners on stormy nights,
And feel for wives that watch ashore. Ay, ay!
If I had learning I would pray the Lord
To bring them in: but I'm no scholar, no;
Book learning is a world too hard for me:
But I make bold to say, ‘O Lord, good Lord,
I am a broken-down poor man, a fool
To speak to Thee: but in the Book 'tis writ,
As I have heard from others that can read,
How, when Thou camest, Thou didst love the sea,
And live with fisherfolk, whereby 'tis sure
Thou knowest all the peril they go through,
And all their trouble.
As for me, good Lord,
I have no boat; I am too old, too old,—
My lads are drowned; I buried my poor wife;
My little lassies died so long ago
That mostly I forget what they were like.
Thou knowest, Lord; they were such little ones,
I know they went to Thee, but I forget
Their faces, though I missed them sore.
I have no boat; I am too old, too old,—
My lads are drowned; I buried my poor wife;
My little lassies died so long ago
That mostly I forget what they were like.
Thou knowest, Lord; they were such little ones,
I know they went to Thee, but I forget
Their faces, though I missed them sore.
O Lord,
I was a strong man; I have drawn good food
And made good money out of Thy great sea:
But yet I cried for them at nights; and now,
Although I be so old, I miss my lads,
And there be many folk this stormy night
Heavy with fears for theirs. Merciful Lord,
Comfort them; save their honest boys, their pride,
And let them hear next ebb the blessedest,
Best sound,—their boat-keels grating on the sand.
I cannot pray with finer words: I know
Nothing; I have no learning, cannot learn,—
Too old, too old. They say I want for nought,
I have the parish pay; but I am dull
Of hearing, and the fire scarce warms me through.
God save me, I have been a sinful man,—
And save the lives of them that still can work,
For they are good to me; ay, good to me.
But, Lord, I am a trouble! and I sit,
And I am lonesome, and the nights are few
That any think to come and draw a chair,
And sit in my poor place and talk awhile.
Why should they come, forsooth? Only the wind
Knocks at my door, O, long and loud it knocks,
The only thing God made that has a mind
To enter in.”
I was a strong man; I have drawn good food
And made good money out of Thy great sea:
But yet I cried for them at nights; and now,
Although I be so old, I miss my lads,
And there be many folk this stormy night
Heavy with fears for theirs. Merciful Lord,
Comfort them; save their honest boys, their pride,
And let them hear next ebb the blessedest,
Best sound,—their boat-keels grating on the sand.
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Nothing; I have no learning, cannot learn,—
Too old, too old. They say I want for nought,
I have the parish pay; but I am dull
Of hearing, and the fire scarce warms me through.
God save me, I have been a sinful man,—
And save the lives of them that still can work,
For they are good to me; ay, good to me.
But, Lord, I am a trouble! and I sit,
And I am lonesome, and the nights are few
That any think to come and draw a chair,
And sit in my poor place and talk awhile.
Why should they come, forsooth? Only the wind
Knocks at my door, O, long and loud it knocks,
The only thing God made that has a mind
To enter in.”
Yea, thus the old man spake:
These were the last words of his aged mouth,—
But One did knock. One came to sup with him,
That humble, weak old man; knocked at his door,
In the rough pauses of the labouring wind.
I tell you One knocked while it was dark,
Save where their foaming passion had made white
Those living seething billows. What He said
In that poor place where he did talk awhile,
I cannot tell; but this I am assured,
That when the neighbors came the morrow morn,
What time the wind had bated, and the sun
Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile
He passed away in, and they said, “He looks
As he had woke and seen the face of Christ,
And with that rapturous smile held out his arms
To come to Him;”
These were the last words of his aged mouth,—
But One did knock. One came to sup with him,
That humble, weak old man; knocked at his door,
In the rough pauses of the labouring wind.
I tell you One knocked while it was dark,
Save where their foaming passion had made white
Those living seething billows. What He said
In that poor place where he did talk awhile,
I cannot tell; but this I am assured,
That when the neighbors came the morrow morn,
What time the wind had bated, and the sun
Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile
He passed away in, and they said, “He looks
As he had woke and seen the face of Christ,
And with that rapturous smile held out his arms
To come to Him;”
| Series of original dramas, dialogues & readings | |